Shame on You
by Lurea
Summary: "What was that for?" Deacon said to MacCready's chest. "Why are we handcuffed to—" He angled his neck painfully to glare at their two arms. The chain went through a loop of rebar protruding from the old freeway. "Why did you handcuff us to rebar, MacCready?" -"Wow, that's amazing, Deacon, how did you figure that out? Guess it comes from being a master spy."
1. Coming out of my cage

"Funny, I don't remember making that a party invitation," Deacon said. The words came out light and carefree, but the gut-punch that he'd felt when he recognized the person standing behind the Sole Survivor was anything but. She'd had Nick Valentine and a dog with her when she'd walked into the Old North Church and he had thought- Well, Nick Valentine was a point in her favor. This guy was a definite point against.

"Hey, George," the other man drawled. Then he shifted the pack on his back, eyes sweeping across the little clearing.

Deacon felt his jaw tighten. "Like the Steinbeck character or like the comic? I'm guessing the comic's more your speed. Either way, it's a compliment, so thanks."

"Sure, George, call me Lennie," MacCready snapped and Deacon's eyes widened behind his sunglasses.

The Sole Survivor gave him a quick look. "I thought your name was- Wait, you two know each other?"

In the late afternoon light, Deacon's shadow stretched long and black before him. The sun in the others' eyes made it harder to read their expressions. Deacon hesitated and thought about walking away. The weather was too clear for a frontal approach and Blue tended to favor those. Plus, with this guy tagging along—he wasn't exactly sure that boded well.

"I'm Deacon," Deacon said evenly. "As for him- I know his reputation. Which is—poor, to be charitable." Mac—the Gunner, damn him, didn't say a word in rebuttal, just stared down at his feet as if they weren't talking about him. Or as if Deacon wasn't being less than honest. Jerk.

Blue—which wasn't her real name but it was what she was going by—spoke and Deacon felt the temperature drop by at least ten degrees. "I don't care what his reputation used to be. He's proven himself to me. If you don't trust my judgement, then I'm leaving."

Such assertive arrogance! What a perfect Pre-war attitude! Sole's score ticked down a notch on Deacon's mental tally. His pleasant expression didn't change; he had a job to do. He wouldn't be showing her—them anything the Institute didn't already know about. He lifted his hands, palms outward. "Hey, I didn't spend all that time stalking you to let you get away that easily. But I would take it as a close personal favor if your backup doesn't sell us out to the Institute."

The other man looked up and smiled tightly. "Depends. How much they payin?" He looked the same as the last time Deacon saw him, but for different clothing. Blue eyes, brownish-red hair, loose pants, shirt, coat—probably multiple weapons in various places, in addition to the expensive-looking rifle slung over one shoulder. Three months since that first night in Diamond City. You never did brush up on searches, Deacon, mental-Dez reminded him. Don't turn your back on him. Hmm. That rifle was new.

Blue looked back over her shoulder and he snorted. "Just joking, boss." Ah, that was funny. What was more amusing than the wholesale slaughter of people that Deacon knew, had worked with for years, right?

The other man raised his eyes to Deacon's and muttered, "Maybe I'd do it for free."

Deacon's mouth responded before his more-rational part could intervene. "You and the Institute hooking up? They supply the money, you shoot the innocents—sounds like love."

He saw Blue open her mouth out of the corner of his eye and stopped himself from saying anything more. He'd also moved a couple of steps closer to...that guy without thinking, and now Blue was to his side. Not good. No turning your back on the newbie.

He—the jerk, the other guy, the Gunner... Avoiding his name is pretty elementary, Deacon. It's Distancing 101, mental-Dez remarked. Why are you doing it? Oh, you know, just like to keep you guessing! Except—not. Deacon dropped his eyes to the scrub-covered wastes. Let's not analyze motivations or—things. There's neither Daytripper nor happy orgasms coursing through your system right now, so screw emotional honesty. Or any honesty. Screw the whole concept of honesty.

Time to get things back on track. His stomach was tight, and tension in your core always leaked out...through the chakras? Something. He couldn't remember, and that Pre-war book on meditation had been torn in half. So many books, so much knowledge lost. He folded his arms, carefully mirroring Blue's body language and concerned expression and took a step back, turned to her.

"Wow. Sorry, Blue." Genuine sincerity in his tone—well, genuine as far as she knew. She began to relax and he copied her, and then took it further, relaxing his stance and shoulders, and spreading out his arms. "I'm not the biggest fan of mercenaries but I'm always happy to be proven wrong. I'm glad I got that out of my system. Everyone feeling better now? Group hug."

She looked relieved. Deacon's mental tally ticked up a notch for being easy to manipulate. He glanced over at ...MacCready-haha, see there, Dez, no big deal, like, at all. His mouth was twisted scornfully. Ah, yes. He'd seen through that before, the perceptive bastard.

Blue glanced back and forth between them. "So, is everything all right?"

MacCready said, "Yep."

Deacon added, "Oh, yeah. We're cool. We're so cool, it's like we're living in a cave, at a steady sixty-eight degrees year-round." Took a second to enjoy the expression on MacCready's face. Then he took a deep breath, and pushed all of that aside, and went on, "So, there's a tourist up ahead with some info for us. Lead the way, Blue."

Blue surprised Deacon by picking the stealthy way. Deacon approved. Plus one. He hung back, trying to get a feel for how she operated. They flushed a couple of mole rats on the way to the tunnel and she shot them efficiently—with a damn nice laser rifle that had 'Brotherhood' written all over it. Seriously, it might even have a label that said 'designed by fascists for all your human supremacy needs.' That was …worrisome. Because if she was leaning Brotherhood, then he should shoot her right here. Minus, like, a million.

He glanced back at MacCready. But he was still hanging around Goodneighbor these days, although not in Hancock's office, obviously, so that didn't make sense either. A Brotherhood enthusiast would peel their skin off before setting foot in the ghoul haven. A puzzle. Well, Deacon did love a good puzzle.

Flicker of motion caught his eye. The screen on her Pip-boy had changed. He'd like to get a closer look at that bit of tech. If she'd had dealings with the Brotherhood, he was amazed that they hadn't flat-out confiscated it. Maybe she'd looted the rifle off a dead paladin or something. Still a minus one for making him worry.

She waved and gestured ahead. Beep, boop, bop. Killer robots on the way. Deacon looked around for cover. Wait, was he the only one doing that? Yes. Yes, he was.

MacCready brought his rifle up in a smooth economical way and fired quickly. Took down two. The third advanced, but Blue sizzled it into ash with her laser-gun. Deacon lowered his pistol, not having even gotten off a shot. Well, whatever else was going on with her, she was a damn efficient killer. As was her partner. Plus two.

They advanced into a larger room. Turret up ahead, still going. Another body crumpled in a corner. Deacon turned her over and …. oh. Songbird. Idealistic. Really believed in the cause. Oh, and young. Stupidly young, because how naïve to choose that as her code name. It sounded like something a kid would do. Now she was a cold sack of meat in an underground room. With benefits like that, it was no wonder that people were lining up to help the Railroad. Part of Deacon wants to rage and run out shooting at the damn Gen-1s, but the cold calculating part of him, the part that occasionally sounded like Dez or a snotty British butler, simply dropped that emotion into a box and closed the lid. No time for that now. Not ever time for that. Stuff it into a box, like he'd put Songbird in a grave, and then push it out into the ether with all the other boxes full of Deacon's emotions.

~to be continued~


	2. Choking on your alibis

Blue gestured again and they all froze. She held up three fingers, and pointed. He wondered if three fingers meant, oh, say...Three enemies. That way. MacCready knelt down and looked through his scope. The muscles of his arms bunched up as he scanned the area ahead. Big pipes, mesh catwalks, water, radiation. Your basic death-trap. MacCready's long coat draped to one side and kneeling drew the green pants tight. Deacon's gaze drifted across his shoulders, down the curve of his back, to narrow hips and firm thighs and round -

MacCready muttered, "I got the back two. You?"

Blue nodded, sighting through her nifty fascist rifle. Oh. Firefight. He should probably at least get his weapon ready, not that he'd needed much up to this point. Hmmm...he thought he'd keep using the pistol since Mac and Blue between them seemed to have the heavy weapon angle covered.

The synths up ahead were doing that creepy thing they do, standing and staring in low power mode until something triggered them. Two white plastic heads exploded, one right after the other. The last activated and whirled toward them and Blue incinerated it. But then three burst out of the water, two rushed out overhead on the mesh walkway and there were multiple alerting noises from the room past this one.

Potential mob-scene—it was dangerous. They should withdraw to a more defensible position. Deacon moved back to the doorway, but the others didn't move. MacCready hunkered down and started firing steadily, and Blue moved to his right and advanced to shoot at the synths above them. No retreat, then. Instead, it was stand your ground/advance time. Dumb. Bad tactics—he was surprised that MacCready was okay with this, because everything that he'd found out about him suggested that he was much more comfortable with distant engagements. Must be Blue's influence-minus one for her.

One of the walkway synths fell off and landed inconveniently close to MacCready and tried to grab him. Deacon grabbed the back of his duster and yanked hard, pulling him out of its reach. Mac stumbled, trying to bring his rifle up, while Deacon put two bullets into its head, one in each eye. The lighter-weight bullets didn't drop it, but it was a lot less lethal without vision. That was a problem with big guns, it took a lot of trouble and practice to use them quickly and efficiently. MacCready was still much faster than most, because it had only fallen back a step or two before he nailed the shot, right in the center of the chest and dropped it.

Deacon fired over his head and took out vision on two more, making it easy for Mac to mop them up. At least two or three were still advancing from the next room, though, plus an unknown number on the walkway. These odds were a little much for Deacon, much less a rational, non-suicidal rush type person. "Fall back?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire. Two rooms east was a nice bottleneck, and they could pick them off, one by one.

Blue shook her head and jumped for the walkway. Pulled herself up nimbly with one hand. The synth took a couple of steps back and started firing. Deacon opened his mouth to yell, and nothing came out...because the Sole Survivor didn't even react, just...advanced, getting hit by shot after shot until she was close enough to blow its head off. His breath left his chest with a rush. _She's...that...what the hell was that..._

"Deacon!" MacCready said. Another synth down, but two more still advancing. Deacon pulled his attention back to the fight and fired automatically. Got them each with a head shot that slowed them and then fired steadily at the lagging one—even small-caliber bullets add up. Mac dropped the closest and Deacon's fifth shot finally dropped the second. Good teamwork—he appreciated the other's easy professionalism.

Blue finally jumped down from the walkway and returned to them. Deacon could see at least five burn marks on her armor, her arms and her legs. _That_ should have _killed_ her. She noticed him checking and stood quietly, MacCready's eyes flickering back and forth between them, and his rifle still in his hands. "I guess that Pip-boy isn't your only Pre-war tech," Deacon said.

She smiled, but it had an edge of bitterness. "No. Some of us soldiers were too expensive to replace. So good ol' Uncle Sam made us extra-hard to kill." She glanced down at the ground. "If that mercenary had shot me, then my husband would still be alive. And I would be too."

She looked at him evenly. "Don't forget to add that to your file, _Deacon_." Then she waded into the water, checking the dead synths, casually ripping off the plastic chest plates to rummage around inside. Ouch. Point for perception, and another for sheer badassery.

Well, that was...interesting. He glanced over and saw MacCready watching him. The dead synth with the blown-out eyes was at their feet. MacCready gestured down at it. "Um. Thanks, I guess. I—I owe you one. "

"Don't thank me," said Deacon coolly. "No, no. That was some other guy, he just swooped in, shot them and ducked back out again. I think I heard mysterious music play when it happened, did you hear that? No?"

MacCready looked annoyed. "Funny, Deacon."

Deacon didn't bother answering. After that exciting bit, the rest of the tunnels were practically a walk in the park. Deacon kept watching Blue, looking for—what? Her eyes to glow or to start flying, maybe? He didn't know. Then they reached the last security door and things went sideways.

"I'm going with you," Deacon said again, as persuasively as he could manage. "Blue-I need to do this. Those are my people in there." Looked like he would have to subtract that 'easy to manipulate' tally. And another for foolhardy stubbornness.

Tried once more by letting his voice shake—just a bit. "Some of them died so I could escape."

MacCready snorted and Deacon scowled at him. Keep your opinions to yourself, buddy.

Blue looked up from her pack and he quickly re-focused on her. "Deacon, I understand, but-" She looked...rather unaffected, considering that he had been using his best sentimental stuff. Her voice had a flat tone that hadn't been there before. Odd—he'd made sure that she and MacCready had not had any private time to talk, to say compare notes on someone named 'Deacon'.

 _Now that you know she's augmented, maybe she's stopped pretending to be human_ , mental-Dez remarked. Which was—a disquieting thought to say the least. Not enough data to support it or reject it.

Blue zipped up her pack and continued evenly: "I need you and Robert to fall back to the freeway and wait for my word. I can use your help with the minefield, but here? Piece of cake. I'll go faster without having to worry about you."

Worry about _him_? Deacon wasn't sure if he should be flattered or insulted. Probably both. Plus, he didn't like the feeling of being shunted off to the kid's table with MacCready, of all people. "Look, I know you're...you. And obviously up for a challenge. But The Switchboard is not a piece of cake. Remember Ricky? There's synths, mines, our traps and about a hundred other things. Plus, you don't know where the prototype is."

She shrugged on her pack and started loading fusion cells into her rifle. "How many modified Stealth boys are lying around? I'll just grab them all. As for the rest—this is a pre-war military installation, Deacon. That's who I am." She smiled. "I'll cut the power, activate the counter-insurg measures and lock it down, and then start the EMP generator."

Okay, Deacon had to admit that sounded impressive. He hadn't had to use any of the Railroad passcodes on the way in. She moved confidently up to each terminal, pressed her finger to the reader and every time, the machine beeped and gave her full access. Deacon had never seen anyone use the fingerprint readers before. It was... freaky. Deacon searched for another reason to put up against her iron self-confidence. The Railroad had used EMP before but- "What if there are gen-3s or Coursers in there?"

She didn't say anything for a moment, but a flicker of sadness passed over her face. Thinking about the missing child perhaps? Plus one for being easy to read, at least, even if she wasn't easy to manipulate. She looked down. "I can handle them too, Deacon. You'll have to trust me. Now," she went on briskly. "Robert's got a Pip boy I modified for him. I can send word on the short-wave."

She straightened up and the tip of her rifle just happened to point close to the floor in Deacon's direction. "Deacon, go." And it looked like he wouldn't have to teach her how to subtly threaten someone. Another plus one.

He stared at her, unwilling to leave but at the same time, unable to think of any further reasonable objections. He didn't want to alienate her. But if he wasn't with her, how was he supposed to finish his evaluation?

"If I don't show up with your prototype in hand, then you can absolutely flunk me," she added flatly, which was spookily close to his thoughts. Were psykers around Pre-war? That was something to check into. Then she gestured pleasantly at the pipe they'd just crawled through. "Goodbye, Deacon."


	3. Turning saints into the sea

It was just beginning to get dark when they re-emerged from the escape tunnel. Dusk was a dangerous time of day, when various creatures came out to hunt but luckily, they saw nothing on the hike back. MacCready didn't say anything as they walked, just kept his rifle held loosely in one arm, eyes sweeping the landscape around them. Deacon felt increasingly frustrated that he'd let Blue insist on this. He nudged MacCready with one shoulder, and kept his tone easy. "Hey, pal. You can tell me. Did you put her up to that?"

The other man's mouth tightened. "No, _pal_. She does her own thing." He grimaced briefly. "You got off easy. She doesn't take arguing very well." Hmmm...should that be a plus two for knocking him down a notch? He'd like to know the details.

They reached the bus and clambered up, MacCready finally slinging his gun around on his back, which made Deacon feel more comfortable. "So, is this some sort of assassination thing? Get me out here by my lonesome and blow me away?" he asked idly.

MacCready grunted, grabbing onto a handhold on the slippery roof. "If that was what she wanted, Deacon, she would have killed you back there, instead of sticking you with me."

Deacon reached the top first and pivoted around to offer the other man a hand. MacCready took it and he pulled him up on the edge, still gripping his wrist. "So, is it an assignation-type thing, then?" he asked playfully, mostly just to see if he could discomfit him, knock a hole in his self-assurance.

 _Mostly?_ muttered mental-Dez. Hush.

MacCready pulled his hand away. "You and your big words. Does that mean picking up some stranger in a bar and screwing them under false pretenses?"

"Ouch, that was mean," Deacon replied. "You know, I totally didn't see anything wrong with that until just now, but you're making me rethink my whole, like, approach to romance."

"Shut up," Mac snapped and walked ahead of him up the old freeway.

Ricky was long gone, probably counting his lucky stars to be out of this mess, Deacon thought sourly. He could wish the same for him. Something about the atmosphere was making him nervous. He had learned to trust his gut, but this was far from ideal circumstances. He was off balance, second-guessing himself.

In front, MacCready paused and aimed his rifle in one smooth motion. Deacon had his pistol up before he'd consciously registered it and moved up next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "What is it?" he whispered.

No answer. MacCready abruptly lowered the rifle. "Nah, it's nothing, I—I just thought I saw one of those ferals twitch."

Deacon squinted ahead into the gathering darkness. "What, one of those ferals? Dude, Blue shredded them—wait, I guess another could have come along…." He fired his silenced pistol into the pile. No reaction. "Nope. Just pieces."

"Sorry," the other man muttered and stalked on ahead. Deacon looked after him curiously. He wasn't sure if that was one of the random bits of trauma that everyone who survived the wasteland accumulated or if it was specific. He… disliked not knowing things like that. Perhaps something to do with his wife's death. He didn't think that anyone had told him exactly how she died. At any rate, it was one of the first times that he'd seen the other distracted. Although, to be fair, he had seemed really distracted after losing the bet in Hancock's office. So unusual, um, other than times involving sex, but really a handful of encounters over a few months wasn't that big of a sample size, if one wanted accuracy. _Thinking about that was not the best way to feel less off-balance_ , mental-Dez said chidingly. Focus, Deacon!

Hey, he could focus. Point in fact: Blue. He'd hacked some old records and put a bunch of pieces together, and thrown himself out on a limb with Desdemona. After Blue had done the whole Lazarus maneuver, he'd kept a sharp-ish eye out. He'd asked around, and shadowed her across the Commonwealth, but always from a distance. (He was done with personal recon; he'd told Dez and everything.) Nothing in his research or observations had hinted at the ability to shrug off laser fire or survive a gunshot to the head. Which meant: she was keeping her abilities secret. Why? Or alternatively, she was purposely showing them to Deacon. Again, why? At any rate, MacCready had been unsurprised by her tactics and her durability. He knew—something.

Anyway...No one could argue with her public actions. She'd picked off raiders and mutants, helped settlements, rescued kidnapped kids, and gotten the water supply re-established for Greygarden. All real Savior of the wastes stuff. She'd had a helper on that last one—her new Gunner friend obviously, but the robots hadn't known anything about him. He would have recruited her then, but he arrived too late. But then lo and behold, she turned up at the Old North Church the next week. With Nick Valentine and not saying anything about her own personal mission. Perhaps she was driven by revenge, since the husband described in her records was notably absent. Perhaps by the missing child. It wasn't common knowledge, but she'd confided in a few people and those had been overheard by others… Deacon was good at his job.

He and Mac reached the top of the freeway and started setting up a temporary camp by the open truck. Faint lights from Corvega visible in the distance. Still ghoul-free, thank God. Deacon broke up a few packing boxes to start a small fire and heat water. Dehydrated stew, yum-yum. Ripped open the sealed packet with his teeth and dumped it into the pan, added a bottle of water. It was nearly dark. He sat down on a long wooden crate and stared into the fire thoughtfully. This was crazy; how were they supposed to clear a minefield in the middle of the night? He had a sleeping bag in his pack, but he hoped he wouldn't need it. He could think of so many better, less haunted and creepy places to spend the night.

MacCready sat down next to him and began fiddling with a Pip-boy. He clicked through a series of screens and paused at one, squinting and angling the device. The warm line of his thigh along Deacon's was …distracting. MacCready, MacCready, MacCready. If he said it three times, would it summon a good karma version? Mental-Dez wondered why he would bother.

The stew was bubbling and Deacon poured some in a chipped mug. Tasted. Salty, but not too bad. Handed a mug to the other man. The firelight gleamed golden on his skin—what there was of it, because as seemed to be his usual pattern, he was covered neck to toes in multiple layers. And despite the night's warmth and the fire, he hadn't taken any of them off, either. Mac took the mug and sipped, eyes never leaving the device. What, no thanks? Courtesy was dead in the Commonwealth.

He finished his stew and wiped the mug clean. Thought about getting out his sleeping bag, but it was still too early. Instead, he pulled off his heavy coat, hat and gloves and stretched. Stowed his weapons in his pack in easy reach. Mac was still looking at the Pip-boy. Jerk was probably just playing Red Menace or something.

"Well?" Deacon asked. "Any messages?"

MacCready straightened up and clicked it off. "Nothing but an ETA." He hesitated and added quickly. "Umm... sunrise."

"Sun _rise?_ " Deacon repeated. The sun had just set, darkness closing in around their little fire. Sunrise was a good ten hours away. "I could _crawl_ through the Switchboard by then." Shouldn't whatever Pre-war tech she had make her faster, not slower? This was getting ridiculous.

"That's it," he announced. "I'm going back there to check on her." Deacon was familiar with the area. Pop a stealth-boy and he could get there in half an hour or less.

MacCready looked alarmed. "Um...you can't. She says the pre-War defenses are tied to...um, i.d.s. Hers are in the system and ours aren't."

Deacon allowed himself a moment of disbelief before laughing. "Was that- your attempt at a lie? It's so cute, like watching a puppy fall down stairs. Come on, do it again."

Mac flushed. "I guess you know lies." Pathetic attempt at a comeback.

Deacon let the smile fall off his face. "Yeah, I do, actually. And that's why I'm leaving. Now." As much fun as baiting MacCready was, Deacon couldn't suppress a growing feeling of anxiety. If he'd been wrong about the Survivor-the Railroad couldn't afford any more mistakes. Not after the Switchboard. _She knew where HQ was._ What if Coursers were incoming, while he sat out here on an overpass?

He stood up with his pack, only to have it taken out of his hands by MacCready. "Keep-away. Not fun. You didn't get enough of being the biggest bully at Little Lamplight?"

MacCready smiled tightly. "You're checking up on me? Sweet, I didn't know you cared, man."

Deacon circled around the fire but MacCready moved so that he was between Deacon and the gap in the barricades. "There?" Deacon asked in disbelief. "That's where you're going to make your stand? There's just some cracked concrete and rebar keeping you and the ground from having a really close encounter."

MacCready said nothing. "Okay, you're officially making me nervous. How about you come over here on the solid piece of concrete and tell me why I should not be suspicious of the creepy two-hundred year old super-soldier who does strange things for mysterious reasons."

MacCready looked scornful but finally moved over to the more solid section of the overpass and tossed Deacon's pack back over by the fire. "Deacon, you're not vetting her. She's vetting you." He looked exasperated. "Everyone else gets it. The Brotherhood and the Institute give her their best tech, and hot guys, but the Railroad—you guys send in the as—the jerk spy who's so obviously lying. About everything!" He shook his head. "Yeah, good job, slow clap."

Deacon stared at him for a long moment, feeling uncharacteristically taken aback. Was that true? Was he supposed to be...seducing her? _I fucking told Dez I was done with personal recon!_ "Wait a minute—are you saying I'm not hot? Dude, ouch, that hurts, really, I'm crushed."

MacCready gave him a look. "You know what I mean.

"Wait, so which of us is the hot one in this scenario? I'm getting confused." He said it lightly, but he was watching the other man's movements closely. MacCready couldn't be more obviously attempting to delay him—dude truly sucked as a liar so he'd given up and was now trying to dangle some tasty truthy bits as bait. Better tactic, but Deacon couldn't afford to get diverted. And this conversation was taking too long. He dodged around MacCready and made for the path back down to the ground.

MacCready grabbed at his shirt and caught it and yanked, making him stumble a couple of steps over to the thin and cracked part of the old freeway. Not his favorite place to be. He tried to both pull away from Mac's grip and side-step. Then an edge piece cracked under his feet, and tilted, giving him an alarming glimpse down one hundred feet. He lunged backward, crashing into MacCready and knocking them both down. He scrambled away from the drop and saw MacCready fumbling at his waist. Deacon suddenly remembered removing multiple holdout weapons during a night in Diamond City. He captured MacCready's wrist in a hard grip. "Here's a thought; how about you try not shooting me?"

MacCready tried to pull away and couldn't. "I haven't ever shot at you, jerk," he retorted.

"Oh, c'mon. You totally thought about it." MacCready was at least partially ambidextrous so Deacon grabbed his other wrist, too. MacCready yanked away, and the little git was surprisingly strong, but Deacon held onto his wrists even when the motion pulled him half atop the other man.

Mac brought one knee up and used the leverage to free his right hand with a sharp blow. Ow. That hurt Deacon's forearm. _Mental note: brush up on hand-to-hand skills._ Deacon glimpsed a flash of metal in MacCready's hand and thought, _This is it_. He struck out, half-blindly, trying to force it away from his face. Mac grunted in surprise and fumbled with something over his head and he felt cool metal against one wrist.

Just as his mind was beginning to form the word ... _handcuffs_ instead of _gun_ -he heard the cuff click closed. He tugged and heard steel scrape against concrete. MacCready grabbed at his arm again, and acting half on instinct, Deacon twisted his wrist, forced the metallic circle down and latched it closed.

MacCready tried to jerk away, but too late. The cuff around his right hand was snug and pulled tight. The motion yanked the other cuff, on Deacon's left, up so that they were face-to-face. There was a short, brief staring contest that ended when MacCready blew out his breath in annoyance and got up on one elbow to look at the cuffs.

"What was that for?" Deacon said to MacCready's chest. "Why are we handcuffed to—" He angled his neck painfully to glare at their two arms. He saw the issue now. The chain went through a loop of rebar protruding from the cracked cement of the old freeway. MacCready tugged at it but it held firm. "Why did you handcuff us to rebar, MacCready?"

"Wow, that's amazing, Deacon, how did you figure that out? Guess it comes from being a _master spy_."


	4. It started out with a kiss

Deacon ignored the gibe with an effort. "This'll be a fun story for back at HQ," Deacon said. "Now how about you take these off?"

MacCready ignored this reasonable request in favor of a close examination of the handcuffs and the rebar. Uh-oh. Deacon was starting to get a bad feeling about this. _Starting?_ mental-Dez asked.

MacCready pulled at the rebar and tried to bend one end of the loop upward. "Stop _messing_ with that," Deacon said. "Just get the key and unlock us, already."

"No can do, man. I just picked those up. No idea where the key is."

"You locked us into a set of handcuffs that you don't have the key for?" Deacon repeated.

MacCready shrugged. "First of all, I wasn't intending to lock myself and second of all, you just need a lockpick to get these old-fashioned ones off. "

"Fine. Give me a lockpick."

MacCready looked away and muttered something.

"What was that? I didn't hear you." Deacon said. "What? They're in your pack? And so are mine. _In my pack._ " He used his free hand to gesture to both of the packs, sitting innocently on the far side of the fire. Might as well be on the moon. Which was up and looking very full and pretty, which in itself, was just a confirmation that they were no doubt in for a helluva night. Full moons and crazy—they went together like mac and cheese.

Deacon blew his breath out through his teeth. "Great. Thanks. My day really wouldn't be complete without being in imminent danger at least five times."

"You're not in imminent danger, Deacon, exaggerate much?" MacCready said, with a hard tug at the rebar. It didn't budge but a chunk of concrete cracked and fell, rotating in lazy circles until it disappeared into the darkness. More bad feelings. On top of all the other bad feelings, so that made it Super-Bad.

"Oh, was _that_ an exaggeration, MacCready? Was it?" His tone was still light, which was difficult to maintain through clenched teeth. "If we die, I am haunting you in the afterlife."

MacCready gave the chain a hard pull that Deacon could swear reverberated across the entire concrete surface.

"Will you stop that before you manage to drop us next," Deacon hissed and knocked his arm out from under him. Mac pushed back hard. Then Deacon tried to punch him, and Mac swung back and there was a brief scuffle that accomplished nothing except knocking off Deacon's sunglasses. The scant amount of slack in the cuffs kept them almost on top of each other, breathing hard, and in Deacon's case, wondering if his shoulder would ever feel normal again. Normal might be a stretch. He'd take workable. MacCready twisted away from him, flat on his back. The fire flickered and flared up briefly before receding to a dim orange smolder that illuminated nothing. Wonderful. The sky was pitch-black and the stars were out. Pretty. At least it would be if he were not handcuffed to a freakin' road. The old concrete was still warm from the sun.

MacCready shifted and Deacon felt tugging through the chain. The concrete creaked again and there was a sudden alarming feeling of tension through the entire surface.

"Get away from the edge!" He fisted one hand in MacCready's stupid five layers of coats and shirts and pulled them both sideways until they were a couple of feet from the brink of the largest hole. Couldn't go much further that way because of the concrete barricades. Go too far the other direction and risk falling off the damn overpass—while being handcuffed to it, which seemed like a very fatal-type of outcome. Deacon wasn't...afraid of heights, just...very respectful. Sometimes he could appreciate the tactical advantage, but at the moment, he just felt like a conveniently placed snack for a passing Behemoth.

He stared at MacCready's face from six inches of distance, and pointedly didn't think about the last time that they'd been this close. The holier-than-thou jerk. Oops, not thinking about it. Deacon swallowed hard. "Not that I give a shit, MacCready, but you do know that if you fall, it will totally dislocate my arm. Also probably pull yours off, so there's that, too."

MacCready scowled. "Move then." He scooted forward and Deacon hastily scrambled back until Deacon's back was against the barricade. Had to breath slowly out through his nose at the sensation of the other man's body pressed against him from chest to hips. Not thinking about anything or ….anywhere. Nope. Not that that was preventing the rest of him from both remembering and reacting, and when the _hell_ had feeling ammo digging into his groin become a thing?

Removing armor, clothing, getting lube, not to mention finding a _safe bed._.. It was a wonder anyone got laid in the Commonwealth. Sex was not a logical way to pass time. That would have to be—cleaning one's guns or practicing sniping or something. Although when one happened to be, say, handcuffed to a cute guy on an overpass...

 _Sir should cease this line of thought immediately_ , snotty-Brit remarked. Too late. And wow, this was extra-special awesome, now he was getting hard. Not a good time, Mr. Happy. Really not. His dick ignored his promised reprisals and continue to harden. Distinct feeling of an answering hardness in the region of MacCready's groin. The fact that Deacon was close enough and sensitive enough to feel that annoyed him even more.

He wasn't even sure who he was annoyed with: Himself, for getting distracted. MacCready, for oh-so-obviously being distracting—that's not even adding the whole handcuffs thing. Blue, for being difficult and hard to manipulate. He needed some distance from this situation for his peace of mind. What could he say; his favorite yoga pose was the split. He pulled at the handcuffs in frustration and got nothing except a flash of pain for his trouble. Pity; sometimes he carried a universal handcuff key, but not today. Which, whoa, wait a minute- _Exactly_ , snooty-Brit said. _If Sir isn't distracted, then why did you believe him when he said that he had no key?_

Deacon was looking straight into MacCready's blue eyes, thinking all of this, and as soon as his brain made that connection and he started groping around Mac's pockets with his free hand, it was obvious that the smart bastard immediately figured out what he was going for, and didn't say, misinterpret the groping as a pass upon his fair person. _Yes, what a pity_ , Brit-butler remarked dryly.

"Stop it, Deacon! I told you I don't have a key!" MacCready shoved at him. Deacon pushed down a surge of annoyance and rolled on top of him, preventing him from moving and pinning his free arm with his shoulder.

Deacon went for pants pockets first, as the most likely spot for a key that you'd want to keep track of. If he could find it, he'd unlock himself, leave MacCready because _screw him_ and get the hell back to the Switchboard to find out what Blue was up to. This meant that he was feeling around Mac's hips, and trying to concentrate on key and not...anything else. Meanwhile MacCready was wriggling and generally being annoying. Checked the last pants pocket. Nada. Nice dick, though. As he so-very-well remembered. Deacon tried to push down a twinge of arousal, and…failed, pretty much.

"I want that key, like, now, MacCready," Deacon said. Trying to keep his mind on Blue and keys and not about how pleasant MacCready smelled, like a mixture of leather and cordite. The dude has a truly unfortunate number of pockets. Big pockets, little pockets, pants pockets, shirt pockets, coat pockets-hey, coat pockets! Worth checking!

As soon as Deacon changed his focus, MacCready plunged a hand into an obscure pocket on the inside lining of his coat and pulled something out, small enough to hide in a clenched fist. "What the hell are you doing?" Deacon said, trying to pry his fingers apart.

"Uh, my job," he replied, sounding gratifyingly out of breath, even as infuriated as that response made Deacon.

"Your job is just to thwart me?" His arms are longer than Mac's so if he can just grab his arm…. Or an elbow or a shoulder and just work your way up, God, Deacon, are you always this stupid, mental-Dez asked in exasperation. He wasn't used to trying to work with one arm out of commission.

He managed to trap MacCready's wrist against the concrete, and pinned him. Mac was warm and sweaty and still straining to keep his outstretched arm away from Deacon.

"Nah, man, my _job_ is keeping you away from Blue. Thwarting you's a _perk_ ," MacCready said, his breath raising gooseflesh on Deacon's neck and making him even harder, _damn it_ , which was all too obvious since he was lying on top of the guy.

Deacon gritted his teeth and tried to insinuate his fingers into Mac's fist and he touched something small and key-like when MacCready jerked his arm away again. Deacon grabbed his wrist and squeezed, in that way that Tinker Tom said was supposed to make the nerves go numb and hey-! For once it worked. The other man's hand opened, small silver handcuff key clearly visible... Then MacCready's arm spasmed and it started sliding off his palm. Deacon's fingers clipped the edge of it and closed on air, and then the key hit the concrete, bounced twice and tumbled through a small, rebar-lined hole. Down one hundred feet to disappear soundlessly into the undergrowth.

Deacon stared after it for a long moment and then looked down at MacCready. He was frowning. "Where's the key?"

Deacon closed his mouth. Looked away.

MacCready looked madder. "Did you just _force_ that key out of my hand and then _lose_ it?"

"Okay, look, things moved a little quickly, some mistakes were made-" Deacon began.

MacCready closed his eyes and overrode him. "The Railroad's _master spy_ and this is what-"

Ouch. Personal attacks. Totally unfair. "That's enough, MacCready," Deacon said. "Whose fault is it we have on handcuffs?"

MacCready's eyes popped open. "Your fault-you wouldn't listen to me about Blue!"

"No, see, why are we on this overpass? Who brought handcuffs into this situation?" Deacon replied, logically, he thought. Although he almost sounded upset on that last one, which was way out of the norm for him.

"Because Blue wanted to check you guys out! Because you boneheads with your stupid 'follow the freedom trail' like that's the height of subterfuge kept dropping hints!"

"I get it, you're unhappy, and I regret that, but at the end of the day, this is really _not our fault,_ " Deacon said. "How about you fill out a customer survey. How can the Railroad make your experience better?"

MacCready's voice just got louder. "Your password to unlock your secret hideout is your name! Sheesh, I thought the Gunners were dumb, but you guys make them look brilliant!"

Deacon opened his mouth to answer calmly, _that's it, I'm out of here_ , when he realized that he wasn't out of here, thanks to the handcuffs, he couldn't be out of here, and so, like, his number one coping mechanism for difficult situations was useless. And he couldn't even think of the next one. What, like drinking maybe? Crossword puzzles? Baiting Carrington? None of which would work because he-was-trapped-on-an-overpass! He could feel his calm disintegrating.

Not least of which because he could suddenly see how goddamn MacCready had absolutely played him, from the initial crappy lie, to the handcuffs and the slightly-better lie, to this whole we have to squeeze together or die- And that, that was a thing Deacon could not forgive, because no one, but no one got the better of him like that. My god, Desdemona would fire him and rightfully so, he'd behaved like a stupid, infatuated kid-

"Shut. Up," he said flatly. And yeah, even now, he knew—that MacCready wouldn't do it and because he was an absolutely aggravating-

"Yeah? Make me!"

Schoolyard taunts. Why was he not surprised? And then, then the only thing to do was to dig his fingers into MacCready's stupid fluffy hair and wrench his head back and kiss his damned throat like he wanted to rip it out.


End file.
